I look down at my arms,
deep gashes cover every inch of my skin,
they are not foreign to me.
I remember when I first started to feel this way,
that I'm worthless,
dirty, unworthy of life.
I trace my finger over the old scars,
memories flash back to me.
In the war...when everything cam crashing down,
when I lost all hope.
I want to die,
just leave, be alone.
This world is hard,
unforgiving, unbearable.
Tears weld up in my eyes,
I fight to hold them back.
I will not cry, I'm not sad,
I'm normal...I'm fine.
I think back to the first time,
how I ever could have lived without it,
all the pain,
blood, seems apart of me now.
In my hands lies a razor,
one of many,
but all used often.
I marvel at how it glistens in the light,
shining from the bathroom ceiling.
So smooth,
yet so deadly.
I raise my arm,
prepared for the contact.
The blade slowly rips through my skin,
deeper...deeper I go.
Little beads of blood begin to form,
the slowly trickles down my arm.
Once again the blade must rape my skin,
I need it, I want it,
I crave it.
I think about my friends,
about the time we had together.
We got through everything,
well...they did.
The tears are getting harder to hold in,
my face is distorted with mixed feelings.
I continue to bring the blade,
to my pale, marked flesh.
Over and over again,
deeper and deeper I go.
My flesh getting ripped apart,
my blood flowing onto the tile floor.
I finish for now,
cause I know it'll happen again.
I bandage my arms,
put back on my black, long-sleeved shirt,
and look at myself in the mirror.
Sunken, almost hollow face,
dark bags under my eyes,
no colour in my skin.
I wipe the few tears from my face,
ready to go out into the world.
I walk out of the bathroom,
same fake smile plastered on my face,
boy's don't cry.